


Constellations

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: The marker tickles as she draws another new constellation on his shoulder. Dean doesn’t mind.It seems appropriate: connecting the dots, taking scattered pinpricks of light and weaving them together, giving them meaning, turning them into more than they were.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Constellations

Her fingers graze his skin, trailing up his shoulder blades, skating over the knobs of his spine, and Dean smiles into the pillow. 

“What’s the game today?” he asks sleepily. There’s no rhyme or reason to the touch that he can tell. Sometimes she traces words into his skin, spelling out secret messages just for him. Sometimes she tries to guess the stories behind the scars — she always kisses them afterward, sweet and reverent.

“Making constellations,” she answers. “Stay right where you are for a sec.”

“Don’t think I could move if I tried.” 

He loves this about her. She plays games and sees beauty in his skin, and she marvels at the tiny everyday wonders: freckles, sunsets, coffee. She always points out wildflowers on the side of the road. If they’re walking through the woods she’ll stop and turn over logs and exclaim at every salamander as if she’s never seen one before. She compliments strangers and makes faces at children and always sings in the shower. 

Dean didn’t have that innocent, childish sort of wonder in his life — not until he met her. Face down enough gods and monsters, you start to get a little jaded about the everyday things. Spend too much time focusing on the darkness in the world, you start to lose sight of the light that shines through. 

She rummages through something on the desk, for a second, and then she comes back, straddling his hips again. She leans forward, draping herself over him, breasts and stomach soft against his bare skin. It’s such a random touch, and there’s nothing inherently sexual in it, but Dean has yet to find a way of making contact between their bodies that _doesn’t_ turn him on. 

“This one here, we’re going to call it Impalus,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. The ink is cool on his skin. “According to ancient myth, it was the mighty chariot of warriors. Instead of sending its broken pieces to the scrap yard, Zeus hung them from the heavens.” 

“Feminine ends in A in Latin,” Dean mumbles. “Still just Impala.” He’s no Sam, but all those years of reciting incantations and poring over spell books have taught him a couple things. 

If he was in her place, he’d make some snarky comment about that, call him a geek, but she just hums in agreement and brushes her lips over the patch of skin. 

The marker tickles as she draws another new constellation on his shoulder. Dean doesn’t mind. 

It seems appropriate: connecting the dots, taking scattered pinpricks of light and weaving them together, giving them meaning, turning them into _more_ than they were. 

Dean has always tried to hold onto scraps of joy, snatches of family dinners and the moments when the perfect song comes on the radio, but sometimes he used to lose track of the good memories. Sometimes they got swallowed in the darkness. 

These days, it’s different. She draws his attention to the joy, and now he can’t stop seeing all these little sparks that illuminate his life. This morning alone: the smell of bacon when he woke up — the smile on her face when he wrapped his arms around her — the way her voice echoed off the tile as she stood pink-cheeked in the steam — and this, right here, right now: lying in their bed, his legs tangled in sheets, and the fact that they _smell_ like her, because she’s woven herself into every part of his life all the way down to the cotton fibers that brush her skin at night. 

There are so many tiny everyday wonders that Dean never would’ve noticed before, and then there’s _her_ , tying it all together, taking the scattered fleeting moments of joy in his life and turning them into a story. She makes it all _mean_ something. She shows him pictures in the stars when he’s forgotten to look for the light. 

She’s tickling his ribs, and Dean laughs, tries to buck her off, rolls over onto his back. She straddles him, naked, eyes lit up with mischief, and Dean tickles her right back. 

It’s playful until it’s abruptly _not_ , and isn’t that always how it goes with her? One moment she’s batting away his hands, shrieking with laughter, and the next moment he’s resting his palms on her belly and _reeling_ with the enormity of what they’re doing. 

Then she’s kissing him, soft sweet mouth plush and eager on his as she laces their fingers together and pins his hands to the pillow, and — 

“God, that’s —” he chokes out, as she rolls her hips. 

“Fuck. _Dean_.” 

— and then she’s squirming, rocking until he’s pressed right between her legs, slotted in against slick heat, teasing the length of him without letting him in. Her mouth is open and red, and she’s still pinning him, so he can’t capture her lips, but he strains against her grip, leans up and gets his mouth on her nipple to tug it between his teeth. She makes a dirty desperate noise and lets go, reaching down between them to guide him into her, and as soon as his hands are free he wraps his arms around her and pulls her down, running his hands over every part of her he can reach. 

He crushes her to his chest as she squeezes around his cock and gasps into his mouth, and it feels so good he’s seeing stars. She grinds down on him, hips swiveling, clenching hot-wet-tight like her body is trying to suck him in deeper as she works herself up. 

He _loves_ the way she looks when she doesn’t give a fuck how she looks. He loves the way her muscles shift, the way her tits and ass bounce and jiggle, the way her skin shines with sweat — it’s _art_. Dean wishes he could paint or sculpt or do anything that could capture the agonized, ecstatic look on her face, because it’s art. _She’s_ art. 

She’s moaning, rough and filthy. Her cunt is silky-soft and dripping as she squeezes around him, and she curses like a goddamn sailor: “Mother _fucker_ — so fucking close, Dean — don’t you fucking dare stop — _fuck_ , I love you.” 

Sacred and profane all at once, like the best art is. 

Dean has a fistful of her soft hair and a ribcage full of this hammering swollen thing that used to be his heart, and he’s so in love with her he can’t think straight. 

She’s close, close enough that all she can do is _move_ , less coordinated and more frantic by the second. Dean rolls his hips, grinding into her, and then she shudders and shouts as her orgasm hits. The living heat of her body ripples and spasms around him and sends him over the edge, and the world dissolves into white light, bright enough to blind him. 

Dean’s seen miracles in his time. He’s seen things that shook the earth and rattled the heavens, and somehow the biggest miracle is the fact that he made it through to this moment: cradling her close, stroking her skin, imagining the microscopic spark of life inside her as the last faraway star completing a massive constellation… Dean can’t see the pattern yet, can’t figure out what shape it’ll all take, but he knows she’ll be there to help him make sense of the story. She always knows how to connect the dots. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please let me know! You can also find me on tumblr: @there-must-be-a-lock


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